


i'm all strung out, my heart is fried

by twnkwlf



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Baseball, Baseball Player Derek, Canon Bisexual Character, College, Drug Dealing, Drug Use, Fluff, Fluid Sexuality, Fraternities & Sororities, M/M, Marijuana, Recreational Drug Use, Stoner Stiles Stilinski, some casual stiles/erica
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-17 02:07:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1369957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twnkwlf/pseuds/twnkwlf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“He’s an 11, Stiles,” she says glancing toward Derek, who is a few meters away, saying hi to some people Stiles doesn't know, and filling a red cup with beer. “That’s the kind of guy who ruins the scale for all men. The scale is broken. Now all you can do is stick out your ass and hope for the best.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. baseball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible triggers listed at the end! If you need anything tagged, don't be afraid to ask. I am here 4 u.

Greenberg used to be the guy with the weed, but now it’s Stiles.

Don’t ask him why. Don’t ask him how. One day, Greenberg just handed him a really alarming bag of pot and it was like winning the lottery because Stiles had only payed for a dime bag. Greenberg was on something. Acid probably, or maybe some potent shrooms, but anyway, he looked like he’d been crying, and Stiles had stood in the doorway of his dorm room feeling uncomfortable. He gave him ten bucks and waited a long time while Greenberg stared at his scales and baggies confusedly.

Then Greenberg just gave him his whole stash, a big ziploc bag with an insurmountable volume of weed inside, and told him to fuck off.

So now Stiles is the guy with the weed.

Scott goes apeshit over it.

“Oh, dude. Dude. Duuuuude.” He hugs the bag of pot to his chest. They usually go out to the forest behind their college to get high because the RA’s come running when they smell smoke, but tonight they just unscrew the screen from the window, hang out of it, and blow their bong hits to the wind. “How did you get this? How did you _get this_?”

“Calm down, it’s just pot.”

“Yeah, but this is like...a lot.”

“Yeah, it’s a lot.”

Scott and Stiles stare at each other’s blood red eyes for a few seconds and Scott says it first,

“We should totally sell some of it.”

His dad’s a cop, but that’s actually an advantage because he knows how to work the system a little bit, and knows how to not get caught. Anyway, he used to play middle man for his friends in high school who were too scared to score from Boyd, so he’s made little deals before, and it can’t be that taxing. Scott’s right-- he’s totally gonna sell some of this pot because people are always asking where to score anyway, right? And there’s a new version of the iPhone that he can’t afford yet, and he still has to buy his fucking  economics textbook.

They get blearily high, eat some apples that they stole from the dining hall this morning, argue about calling delivery before they realize they literally have no cash. Stiles falls asleep with one hand touching the massive ziploc bag of weed. He hopes Greenberg won’t remember giving him his stash.

***

On Saturday, he has a 9 AM tutorial that he actually wakes up for, for the first time ever this semester. He drinks two coffees on the way to the Science Building, and no one else is there when he arrives. He sits for half an hour bouncing his legs up and down and staring at the blank SmartBoard, thinking that he must have fucked the room number up or something, until he checks his email and sees that the TA sent out an announcement last night and the class is cancelled.

He gets up to leave as someone else walks in, and it’s a guy who definitely looks too old to live on campus, but is dressed too much like a student to be a professor or a TA. He pauses in the doorway,

“Cancelled,” Stiles says, waving his phone. “Fucking typical.”

“Right.” The guy sighs a little. He’s hot. He’s hot in the way that Lydia Martin is hot. His features have been blessed by the gods. Stiles regrets not coming to this class more.

“Are you going to go back to bed?” Stiles asks because he’s just the kind of guy who always says the first thing on his mind.

The hot guy is still holding the door open, one foot into the room, backpack slung over one shoulder. He raises his eyebrow comically. “Why would I go back to bed?”

“Um...It’s 9 AM on a Saturday?”

“I was up at 7.”

“That’s just gross,” says Stiles, and Hot Guy doesn’t say anything back.

Stiles just stands there awkwardly. His hair is probably sticking up. He forgot to brush his teeth this morning. He’s on his last pair of clean underwear. There’s a large bag of pot sitting in a shoebox under his bed. This guy looks like he was up at 7 so he could go to the gym. He probably has a really nice off-campus apartment, and a car that is a new model, and a rich and beautiful girlfriend who he wears matching aviator sunglasses with. Stiles feels stupid and small, and tired. He scratches at his head.

“Anyway, did you do the readings for this week?” he asks.

“No.”

He’s not smiling or anything, but he also hasn’t turned around and carried on down the hallway with his fucking life. Stiles likes how he’s sort of weird and quiet, but also amused. He says,

“You wanna smoke some pot and do the readings?”

The hot guy sucks on his bottom lip for a second, and then swivels his body as if to say, _aw fuck it._

"Kay.”

***

Derek Hale is the guy’s name and he coughs a little as they pass the pipe back and forth. Stiles blows smoke rings and forgets that he looks like an idiot when he does that. Derek pokes one with his pinky and it smooths out into a line, disappears in the air, leaving a nice, dank smell behind.

“What year are you in?” he asks Derek. They’re sitting on the forest floor, only a few yards away from the back of Stiles’s dorm building, with their books spread out in their laps.

“First year, technically.” Derek lights the rest of the bowl. “But this is my second degree.”

“Shit, you already have a degree?”

“Yeah, in business.”

“What’s your second degree gonna be?”

“Philosophy,” Derek says while holding his lungs. It comes out all high pitched and tight.

“So you’re opening up a philosophy business?” Stiles thinks he’s being funny.

Derek blows the smoke out and stares down at the book for a few seconds, and then he shrugs, and Stiles watches the muscles of his shoulders and arms work. Is this guy even real? Is he made out of fucking rocks?

“I have no idea what I’m going to do with it, I’m just getting it.”

Stiles feels the exact same way about his first degree.

After a few minutes of disjointed reading, he throws the book aside so it gets covered in leaves, growls in frustration.

“It’s too early for this shit.”

“You’re just too high to focus.”

“Fuck that, you know, I would be on the Dean’s list if they let me smoke in class.”

Derek snorts. They pack another bowl. Stiles lays back and starts talking about last midterm, which he showed up for while on MDMA and still wearing a pair of small boy shorts that he’d stolen from Danny’s boyfriend at the party the night before. He was also wearing a nice button down shirt with it, so he looked like a fabulous Tom Cruise in Risky Business, and there was glitter, and his professor had pulled him aside after he finished the exam and lectured him on academic etiquette or whatever. Derek laughs about the boy shorts.

“I got an A,” Stiles says through the laughter, and then they’re barking about it because everything is funnier when you’re high.

Isaac and Ethan call out, walking through the trees to get to them, and they come park it in front of Derek and Stiles’s study session. Stiles has felt awkward around Ethan ever since that double date fuckery last semester. Everyone shakes hands with Derek lightly which Stiles finds hilarious and unnecessarily cordial.

“Scott told us you were holding,” Isaac says.

Stiles accepts fifty bucks from them and says he’ll stop by their rooms to drop the shit off later. They know he’s good for it. They start talking about a sorority party that’s happening tonight, and it’s at the Delta Kappa Kappa house where Allison lives so Scott will want to go because he and Allison are actually making an effort to be, like friends? And he’ll want Stiles to bring the weed.

When they go, Derek starts to pack up his shit. He hands Derek his phone and tells him to punch in his contact info, says something general like,

“You should swing by that party tonight.”

But he really means it.

And Derek sends a text from Stiles’s phone so they have each other’s numbers. Stiles isn’t sure yet if this is a strictly straight thing on Derek’s end, but  he doesn’t want to get ahead of himself. He’s got a track record of getting ahead of himself. When he lost his virginity to Heather in the corner of the wine cellar that one night, he’d assumed they were dating after, and she had just wanted to be friends. There was a really awkward relationship status incident on facebook that he’d rather never think about again.

“If you ever want some pot, I live in that building.” He points to the greyish outline of the Werner House. “Look for the door with the dick drawn in sharpie at the top.”

Derek rolls his eyes.

“All of the doors in Werner House have dicks drawn in sharpies.”

“Yeah, but mine’s wearing a hat.”

***

The Delta Kappa Kappa party is pretty good. Stiles has had three beers by the time some girl swings herself around him like he’s a pole and starts kissing his neck. She’s trying to dance even though they aren’t near the people who are dancing. He makes out with her for about thirty seconds before he realizes that she’s a lot drunker than him. He gets rid of her by ducking under the table where all the booze is sitting. It’s sticky under there, but the girl twirls in a circle, looking for him before she _literally_ screams, “Lizzie!!!” and takes off into the other common room, into Lizzie’s arms.

He wants to get out from under the table, but then there’s a pair of legs blocking him. Legs in heels. Nice legs in heels. Lydia crouches down to meet his eyes.

“Heeeey, Lydia,” he says, giving a wave, tucked into his own thigh like Gollum.

“Stiles,” she begins in her serious voice. “If you’re going to turn this night into another hazardous game of hide and seek like St. Patrick’s day, then you can leave right now.”

“Hey, Scott was only in the dryer for a few minutes before we found him. And it was on the delicates setting.”

She holds up a finger to shush him.

“Also, there’s a Diesel model here who says he knows you.”

“Derek’s here?”

And Stiles climbs out from under the table with all the grace of a drunk ballerina. When he springs up, he sees Derek and they nod at each other through the crowd. He quickly turns to Lydia.

“On a scale of 1-10, what am I?” He smooths his hair back a bit. “Hot or not?”

Lydia gives him a once over.

“A 5 in your buzzcut days.”

“Well, what about my bedhead days?” he says, gesturing to his hair that always sticks and out like it’s got a boner.

“A 7 at worst.”

“Am I at my worst right now?”

“He’s an 11, Stiles,” she says glancing toward Derek, who is a few meters away, saying hi to some people Stiles doesn’t know, and filling a red cup with beer. “That’s the kind of guy who ruins the scale for all men. The scale is broken. Now all you can do is stick out your ass and hope for the best.”

She’s let her gaze slip up and down because now Derek is bending over to tip the keg forward a bit. He pats Lydia on the shoulder and moves toward Derek, saying to her,

“I call dibs.”

“If he’s not into dick, send him to my room.”

***

Stiles is bad at beer pong. He loses twice and gets about 50% drunker than he was an hour ago. Derek has been drinking a lot less. He doesn’t say much because it’s becoming obvious to Stiles that Derek is a Shy Guy, but after he’s finished a few beers, he joins in throwing pong, and sinking every shot, which makes Erica have an actual temper tantrum after she finishes chugging.

It turns out that Danny knows Derek from some sort of sports team. Stiles stopped paying attention to his sports teams last semester when he became captain of swimming and varsity lacrosse, leaving Stiles feeling meek about his own sports career which lasted for about one semester in high school.

For most of the party Stiles is intoxicated enough to forget about the volume of his voice and the crudeness of his conversation. He talks to a lot of people, loses sight of Derek for a bit, but a half-hour later he finds him in the kitchen talking to Boyd about sports, probably. He guides Derek by the shoulder outside where a bunch of people are standing around a cloud of smoke. Smoking cigarettes and some really terrible weed by the smell of it.

He loves the pot circle. It’s where all the good conversations are. He watches Kira and Aiden wax poetic about their history professor's nip slip in lecture the other day. The weed is low grade, barely touching Stiles who wants to be a little looser than he already is.

“Upstairs,” he slurs to Derek. “My shit’s way better.” Greenberg’s shit, really, but whatever.

He probably makes a fool out of himself, wandering around the girls dorms with Derek at his heel, trying to find the room where he’d stashed his backpack. He accidentally walks in on someone having sex, but they don’t notice.

They finally find his and Scott's backpacks, and Stiles remembers this is Allison’s room, so he feels less bad about flopping on the bed with the bottle of tequila he found. Derek shifts on the carpet, looking at the pink and green walls.

“You want a shot?” he asks, sitting up a bit.

“Who’s room is this?”

“My...best friend’s ex-girlfriend’s? I think. Whatever.”

Derek sits on the edge of the bed and takes a swig from the tequila bottle. He hisses. He hands Derek the little baggie of weed and rolling papers, and Derek rolls a joint, and they light it, stinking up Allison’s room.

“What’s wrong?” Stiles asks. He detects it like an itch, something in the way his new friend’s shoulders sit.

“You’re really young.” He smokes. “This party is really young. I feel like I’m...”

“The Delta’s will let in anyone under thirty, so you’re good.”

They smoke in silence. Just for a little bit. Stiles still can’t keep his mouth shut, even drunk and high. The room spins a little.

“Look, I know you’re a philosophy major, but don’t get too philosophical about it.”

“I guess I’m not really into frat parties.”

Stiles sits up. The room is really, really spinning. It’s on a carousel. He says,

“Then it’s a good thing this is a sorority party.” Then he asks, “what is it that you’re into?”

He thinks, for like, a fraction of a second that came out wrong and too forward, but then Derek says,

“Baseball.”

Stiles snorts a little. He tries to take another hit, but as soon as he smokes it, he decides against it and just puffs instead so the smoke doesn’t hit his lungs. He laughs.

“We will play baseball sometime, my friend, that is a promise.”

And then he lies back down, pats Derek’s very solid shoulder. He’s out before he realizes he’s slipping.

***

Allison is yelling at him in the morning. It’s a lovely sound to wake up to. He finds himself thinking sour thoughts like, _Scott dodged a bullet with you_ , but he actually likes Allison, he’s just irritated and still kind of drunk.

“Get out of my bed, Stiles, Jesus Christ. God.”

He rolls over and realizes that it’s light out. Allison is still wearing her party clothes and the way she’s half sitting on the edge of the bed, only barely shoving him in the ass, trying to push him off, shows that she’s still drunk from the night before. 

“I’m going, I’m going.” He’s so dehydrated and shaky that it’s a miracle he manages to get his shit and get up.

When he stumbles out of Allison’s room, she’s already passed out on top of the rumpled sheets. He goes back to turn her on her side into the recovery position like he learned in First Aid class because he’s been paranoid that one of his friends would choke and die on their own vomit ever since he watched that one episode of Breaking Bad.

When he gets home, he throws up, washes his face, chugs half a gatorade, takes off all his clothes, and falls asleep tucked in his sheets like a burrito. Before drifting off, he wonders idly about Derek, and baseball, and has a fucked up dream where he’s stranded in a big outfield, completely naked.

***

Erica’s tongue feels like the most beautiful pins and needles. She likes when he pulls her hair, so he fists the messy bun on top of her head and mutters something really filthy under his breath. She’s barely paying any attention to the head of his cock, which is mean, because every time it hits the back of her throat, he jerks.

He’s close, rubbing back and forth across her tongue to get as much friction as possible. As if she can tell, which she probably can, she pulls him out her mouth and waits a few seconds, smirking down at his dick like she owns it. His heart bangs in his ears and, yeah, fuck it, fine, she owns his dick right now. He’s about to say, “don’t stop” like a cliche porn star, but then she almost violently closes her lips around the too-sensitive head, and she _sucks_.

“Holy fuck,” he squeezes out.

She digs her nails into his thighs and he comes, his heart breaking a little because every pore is fucking singing, but also because it’s ending and he’s pulsating back down to the earth. She strokes him through it, getting her hand messy. He hasn’t gotten off in a while so there’s a lot of come, and her eyes widen a bit as he hisses.

“Damn,” she says.

“Sorry.” He can hardly think right now, just flops back.

“I’m not cleaning you up.”

She stands up, wearing a shirt but no pants. He’s still got his pants around his ankles, but no shirt. As soon as he stepped into the room, she threw him down, proclaimed that they had 19 minutes until her roommate came home from roller derby practice, and fucked the ever-loving shit out of him until she came, which took all of about three minutes. He’s glad that he didn’t nut right away-- her blowjobs are truly an art form.

They both squeeze into the shower because they’re a little gross. Erica yawns, letting him move under the spray.

“Are you seeing that guy?” she asks.

“Which guy?”

“The older one. From the party.”

A few days ago, Stiles found Derek on facebook. His profile picture was him and some guy who looked like he was probably his brother, and they were sitting by a lake with a cooler open and holding fishing rods, turning toward the camera. The “Add as Friend” button has been haunting him for days, but he can’t bring himself to do it because as socially awkward as he is in real-life, he’s even more so online.

“Not even remotely.”

“Stiles, lock that down, I swear. He looks like a spartan extra from 300.”

“I _know_ , okay.”

Erica gets dressed really quickly because she has class in 15 minutes, tells him he can use her computer if he wants, but not to hack her twitter. When he checks his facebook, “Derek Hale” has added him as a friend.

***

A few days later, Stiles has made almost $200 bucks by selling pot. He keeps the cash under his mattress like the biggest cliche ever. While he’s lying around, playing the new Pokemon game on his DS, he gets a text from Derek that says:

**baseball?**

“Why do you need the bat?” Scott asks when Stiles is tearing through the closet. He swears there’s an aluminum baseball bat here somewhere.

“I’m going to play baseball.”

“You don’t know how to play baseball.”

“Well, I’ll learn.” He finds a porn magazine and laughs because seriously, _who buys porn magazines anymore when PornHub has an app?_

“Who are you playing baseball with?”

“This jock friend-guy.”

“You don’t have any jock friends.”

“Scott, will you just help me find the damn bat?”

He finds it, and when he meets Derek in the parking lot, Stiles realizes he was right about Derek having a nice car because he gets out of a fucking black camaro and Stiles comes in his pants a little.

“What’s with the bat?” Derek asks. Stiles holds it aloft.

“Well...baseball...right?”

Derek chuckles and holds up a couple of tickets. He takes the bat from Stiles and puts it in the backseat.

“We’re watching the home game at Lincoln Field.” He shakes his head, laughing. “It’s the championship.”

Stiles feels stupid and inferior so he just climbs into the sexy camaro to make himself feel better. He strokes the dashboard a little.

“Our school has a baseball team?”

Derek laughs again, and his teeth are like cartoonishly white and perfect, so Stiles has to look away. He’s embarrassed for himself. He’s embarrassed for Derek having to be seen in public with Stiles who doesn’t even own a baseball cap. Derek is wearing his backwards. It’s really adorable.

“Take a look at the events board sometime.” Derek starts the car. It purrs like it likes Stiles.

“Event boards are for freshmen,” Stiles says, even though he’s a freshman.

***

Stiles knows the general principles of baseball because he was enrolled in a little league for five minutes when he was eight, but then his mom got sick, and really, his attention span could not handle all that idle waiting in the dugout.

 

Derek explains that he got a full ride for being on the team when he was getting his first degree, and if Stiles ever paid attention the the trophy case, he’d probably see pictures of Derek in uniform (and he’s going to have to check that out as soon as he gets back to campus because _asses look seriously great in baseball uniforms_ ).

“That’s coach Finstock,” Derek says. He points at the guy who has stormed out onto the field and is yelling at the umpire so loudly you can hear it over the drone of the crowd.

“He’s got crazy eyes.”

Later in the game, someone fucks up and hits a foul ball, and Stiles can see it coming right at him. He freaks out for half a second before he remembers how to catch a ball, envisioning all the days that Scott hurtled them at him in lacrosse practice in high school.

He catches it, jumping over Derek to get it. He screams like a kid when he holds it up. It’s kind of embarrassing. The people around him look annoyed and he’s practically sitting in Derek’s lap .

“I love baseball!” he yells. Derek rubs his eyebrows.

***

The game is a lot less exciting after that. They just talk for a while, kind of forgetting about the action on the field.

Derek says he lives up north, near Washington, and his parents are park rangers who work in a reserve. Stiles tells him that his dad’s a cop.

“You’re a drug dealer,” Derek states.

“Yeah, but only for like, a week.”

Because Stiles is someone who is full of stories, he decides to tell Derek about the double date fuckery.

“I’ve been in love with Lydia since orientation week, so logically, I thought if I let her set me up it would get me closer to her. Anyway, I had to go out her and her boyfriend, and her boyfriend’s twin-- I’m talking identical, like, they wore the same jacket. Who does that?  So we went out for drinks, and I got too fucked up to remember who was who, and I ended up trying to make out with Aiden, the other twin, who is a total dick, just so you know, we avoid him at all costs. I single handedly offended Lydia, her boyfriend, and my date all in one move.”

His stomach tightens as he waits for Derek to comment on the gender hopping in that story. Derek wrinkles his eyebrows. He does look a little confused, which is stupid, and a ridiculous source of anxiety for Stiles.

It was in junior year of high school when he kind of let himself think about the fact that his affliction for gay porn might actually mean something more than just an eccentric porn taste. That was the year he started dating Caitlin, who was his first and only actual girlfriend, and let himself think about the possibility that he could be bi like her. Once the idea crossed his mind, he almost felt instantly better, like the little unspoken war between choosing sides was finally over. So he thought about it a lot, started acknowledging the great physique that was always on display in the locker room, fiddled with his facebook preferences every now and then to see how he felt about seeing himself as “interested in men and women.”

He told Scott about it when Caitlin dumped him a few months later, and they got drunk with a stolen bottle of Jack and deleted all the instagram photos of them kissing and the food they’d ordered on dates, and they put all her presents in a box on the street, and he said to Scott,

“I think I want to go to a gay bar.”

And Scott said,

“Why, though?”

And Stiles was like,

“I’m probably into guys, like, at least half as much as girls. Caitlin opened up a lot of stuff for me, Scott. Oh God, give me my phone I’m gonna text her.”

Scott did not give him his phone because friends don’t let friends drunk text ex-girlfriends. Scott did take him to Jungle, where they’d been once before with Danny, and he watched with his mouth agape as Stiles was whisked away into the crowd by dancing men and as Stiles made out with one of them. It was his first actual kiss with a guy and he didn’t even know his name, but the stubble was nice and yeah, that was something Stiles wanted to put in the spank bank. The next morning, Scott made them a literal pound of bacon for the hangover breakfast and they watched Netflix until Melissa yelled at them to do the dishes.

In senior year, he had a thing with one of the deputies at the department. Parrish was kind of a flirt anyway, so the innuendos and eye quirks never meant anything until suddenly it was his 18th birthday and Stiles was at the department eating cake with his dad and the rest of the office because the Sheriff felt guilty about having to work that night and cancelling their annual Starship Troopers and pizza tradition. Almost everyone got called out to a pile up on the outskirts of town. Parrish stayed because he was on desk-duty, and there was this weird moment involving icing on the cheek and Stiles’s tongue, and then they were going into a supply closet in the basement and making out until their teeth scraped against each others. Stiles’s heart was in his throat, but he was also _painfully_ into it. Parrish sank down to his knees, saying

“You’re 18 today, right?”

And Stiles, shaking, came harder than he probably ever had before, and Parrish muttered, “happy birthday.”

A thing started. Lots of sneaking around. Parrish was suddenly his window into the world of guy-on-guy sex, which was awesome, and which Scott was weirdly curious about when they talked about it. He liked Parrish-- wanted to, like, cuddle after and everything which was unfortunate because Parrish was basically only about getting off. It was the cause of a lot of heartache and cliche my-mind’s-tellin’-me-no-but-my-body’s _-my-body’s_ -tellin’-me-yes nights in Parrish’s stupidly big bed.

Except the most awkward thing of all time happened before Stiles could really get his heart broken. His dad found some texts and pictures.

Which led to Parrish being transferred and also it led to a really formal discussion about Stiles’s sexuality that he never had to have with Scott because Scott was a lot less old and confused. His dad hugged him a little too tight after, told him he was sorry if Stiles ever felt like he had to “hide that part of himself,” and lectured him about the importance of power balance in relationships, and how Parrish was inappropriate because he was in a position of authority while Stiles was still in high school. He seemed shell shocked, but only said to Stiles,

“Just don’t bring home any criminals.”

So he understands the confusion in Derek’s face, but he knows it can’t last because this isn’t some all-american small town like Beacon Hills. This is college and it all seems to matter so much less. He hooks up with people because there are always people to hook up with-- something he never dreamed of when he was sixteen.  It’s guys, and girls, once it was both at the same time

“So you bat for both teams?” There’s a very small chance that Derek is smiling with the corners of his mouth, but Stiles wouldn’t know, because he hasn’t seen Derek smile that much.

“My dick does not play baseball, man. I’m more like...the ball.” He holds up the one he caught. “The ball pays no attention to teams.”

“I was trying to make a pun, but you turned it into a metaphor.”

Stiles, cautiously, leans back in his seat a little, looking down.

“So what about you?”

Derek shrugs. He takes to ball from Stiles’s hand and throws it up in the air a few times.

“I just like baseball.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story contains descriptions of drug use, mention of hard drug use, and drug dealing. Some characters also express anxiety about sexuality.


	2. it's fucking fun to stay at the fucking Y-M-C-A

Stiles wakes up to a loud and blaring “Your Love is my Drug” by Kesha and it takes him about thirty years to realize that it’s his phone ringing. Scott moans in the other bed, throws something inanimate at him that bounces off his head. His hand is asleep so he can hardly slide his finger across the answer button.

“Hello?”

“Get up, we’re going to the gym.”

He’s really confused, but then Derek says, “we have class in an hour, come on,” and _oh, it’s Derek_. He clears his voice, trying to sound like he wasn’t dreaming about cats thirty seconds ago.

“God, it’s 7 AM.”

“Yup. Athletic complex, ten minutes.”

“You’re an overachiever.”

***

It turns out that Stiles can’t lift. Like, at all. He tries going for something modest, two 25 lbs weights on the barbell while Derek stands above him. At this angle, he gets to investigate the wonder of Derek’s perfect five-o’clock shadow which Stiles could never grow because his facial hair comes out in clusters of ginger hair. Stiles can’t even lift the bar twice. He could blame it on Derek for being distracting, but the truth is the only muscle tone he has is from running to class everyday, five minutes late.

“This is sad. I’m like Spongebob,” he grunts, trying to straighten his elbows. “This is not how I wanted to spend my Saturday morning.”

“Keep your chest up. Don’t stress your shoulders.”

“My shoulders are stressed, okay? They’re stressed and having a nervous breakdown. Oh God, I can’t do this.”

Just as his arms start to wobble dangerously, Derek sets the bar back in place and Stiles can tell he’s trying not to laugh. They switch places, but first Derek adds another couple of weights to the bar like he’s trying to hurt Stiles’s feelings. He has to let his hands hover near Derek’s in order to spot. If he thinks about it too hard, he’ll end up doing an awkward hand-touch thing. He asks him,

“Why do you do this to yourself?”

“My sister,” he huffs, lifting the bar for the fiftieth time. “She’s a marine. She’s kind of a beast. She helped me move up in weight class for wrestling in high school. Kind of just stuck with it.”

“You have a sister?”

“I have two. And a brother. You?”

“I’m just a spoiled only child. Apple of my father’s eye and all that.”

Derek doesn’t ask about his mother and that’s nice, not to have to address that gaping hole in his childhood while Macklemore is playing over the PA system. Derek does 6000 more bench presses and then they move onto the treadmills for some cardio. Stiles increases the speed up to 10 because running is something he can do, probably.  

***

Stiles is naked and trying to focus on anything but the fact that only a curtain is separating him Derek, who is also naked. He showers with the generic pink soap provided in the dispenser, but he can smell the Old Spice that Derek is currently lathering his wet and naked body with in the stall next to his which is an absolute assault on his senses. _Easy, boy_ , he tells his dick. He’s already half hard because his brain can’t stop imagining what it looks like in there-- chest hair, muscles, ass-- oh God, what does his ass look like? He mixes random porn images of hairy, muscular guys with Derek’s face, and his shark teeth biting someone’s nipple, and a tongue licking down his happy trail. He absently brushes his hand back and forth across his junk, forgetting that he’s in public and he can’t actually finish, and also it’s weird to jack off to someone when they’re about five feet away from you, so he should stop.

He’s going have the bluest balls.

He gets out first, dries off, thanks baby Jesus that he decided to bring boxer briefs, and gets dressed, replacing the porny thoughts with the poignant memory of his father dancing the YMCA at his cousin’s wedding last year. Boner-killer.

He’s just sitting on the bench between rows of lockers, trying not to notice the wrinkly ass on the old man a few lockers down. The boner is definitely gone.

And then Derek comes around the corner of the locker area with just a towel around his waist. And it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen-- this fucking guy, all freshly scrubbed and soft, chest still a bit red and shiny. He’s already run the towel through his hair and it flops forward on his forehead carelessly. He has chest hair spreading out onto his pecks. The happy trail isn't just happy, it's ecstatic, euphoric. There are abs. There are angels singing.

_It’s fun to stay at the Y-M-C-A!_

Derek goes to his locker and trifles through the gym bag he brought. He pulls out a tight henley. Stiles doesn’t own a gym bag, so he’d stuffed his clothes in a Trader Joe’s recyclable bag and he’s wearing his stupid Stud Muffin t-shirt. God.

“How are your arms?” Derek asks him.

“Listen, dude, I’m probably never going to be the kind of guy who gets up at 6 AM on a perfectly good Saturday to torture myself in a room full of better looking people.”

“You know why they have mirrors in the weight room? It’s because the people lifting love to watch themselves. They’re not watching you.”

Derek drops the towel. Jesus Christ.

_**IT’S FUCKING FUN TO STAY AT THE FUCKING Y-M-C-A.**_

He has to avert his eyes for Derek and for his own sanity. Then word vomit happens and he says,

“Well, if I looked like you, I’d probably be glued to the mirror, too.”

Wow. He just did that. He just hit on a naked guy. If Scott was here, he’d be sniggering behind him. Every organ in his body is cringing. It probably looks like a city on fire in his head. He hurts all over from the weightlifting, but also shoving all that attraction down into his chest cavity has made him ache. He can’t be Derek’s new gym buddy-- his dick would fall off. 

When he looks back up, Derek has pants on. Tight pants, but still, godspeed that perfect ass.

“Shut up,” Derek says, but he’s smiling and shaking his head. Stiles gets the sense that people must compliment him a lot; describe him as _hunky_ to their friends. He probably blushes like this a lot, and if seeing Derek naked didn’t completely incapacitate him, seeing him blushing does. He wipes an inconspicuous hand across his forehead.   

***

They’re making their way across campus toward the complex where their tutorial is when Derek says,

“I think I just like clearing my head with exercise. You don’t have to like it. It’s not for everyone.”

“I’m more of a ‘get stoned and watch Tarantino movies’ kind of guy.”

“You smoke everyday?” Derek asks.

“It helps me focus. Shuts my brain up without having having to take a bunch of adderall.”

Stiles sells his adderall sometimes because the market for behavioral meds at college is rampant. Though, there’s days where he feels like he’s on the fringe and he has to lie down, medicate, throw himself into a ten page paper so his head doesn’t explode.

“I did too many drugs in freshman year. Almost lost my scholarship. I had this girlfriend...she was into a lot of heavy shit.” Derek shifts the bag onto the other shoulder. “I try to lay off now.”

Stiles is about to probe Derek about the girlfriend because this dour look has taken over his face and he’s looking down at the cracks in the sidewalk, but something interrupts him.

“STILINSKI!” a voice commands. He flails, twisting around. Greenberg is at the other end of the quad, pointing at him. Stiles impulsively reaches out for Derek’s shirt, grabs it in a fist, waiting to see what will happen.

This is about the weed. He sold most of the weed. He bought the new Pokemon game and a buttload of iTunes cash because he’s been feeling guilty for torrenting so much lately. Greenberg starts toward him in a run.

“Shit...run….run, run, run.” He takes off, not looking behind him to see if Derek is following.

He is, though. He almost crashes into a campus tour group, but Derek pulls him aside just in time and they speed around the corner of the library, taking the concrete stairs two at a time, while Stiles mutters _fuck, fuck, fuck_ under his breath Greenberg yells “hey!” over and over again.

They sprint past the complex where their class is held, past Werner House. People jump out of the way. Stiles thought he was good at running, but his lungs feel like they’re going to detach. Derek is obviously struggling much less with this, holding Stiles by the elbow, ducking around the corners.

“Stilinski!” he hears Greenberg yell. He’s close. How is his lung capacity good enough for this sort of long distance sprinting? “I’m gonna fuck you up!”

“Who are we running from?” Derek snarls beside him as they reach the greenhouses near the Physics building.

“Drug dealing...environmental sciences major...does a lot of hallucinogenics,” he huffs between breaths.

Derek yanks him by the arm into the first greenhouse. It’s totally empty, no green in sight, and Stiles knows that Greenberg is right behind them, but he might actually throw up a lung if he doesn’t slow down. They stop and he bends down onto his knees, and Derek is in front of him, stanced a little like a boxer as Greenberg swings around into the greenhouse.

“Fine, fine, Jesus...hit me...I can’t run...anymore,” Stiles pants. still bent onto his knees.

“My stash, Stilinski-” Greenberg starts saying, walking around Derek to get to Stiles, but he’s cut off when Derek grabs him by the back of the grungy Rasta sweater and pulls him down. Derek holds Greenberg in place, huffing like a bull, raising his fist like it’s a loaded gun. Stiles has seen people do this in the movies, mostly Italian mobster movies, where a guy knocks someone down and crouches over them, shirt balled up in a big fist, but it’s the most dramatic thing he’s ever seen in real life. He’s never actually witnessed a real fight before, so the adrenaline shoots through him as he watches Derek threaten.

“Go back to your dorm room,” he says slowly.

Greenberg tries to raise his hands.

“He owes me--”

“I said piss off.”

A really, really, really tense moment of silence follows in which Stiles’s entire body reacts strangely to the situation. He might be a little hard. He also might faint. Greenberg scurries away from Derek after a few seconds, realizing that Derek’s fist is a time bomb, and he opens his mouth to say something, but Derek does this thing with his eyebrows that Lydia would call sass,  and then he fucks off like Derek so politely asked him to. Stiles sags.

Derek looks back at him when they’re alone and his eyes are all _questioning._

“Um...so...how bout that cardio?” Stiles says. He’s still out of breath.

“What did you do?”

“It was a mix up...no big deal.”

“Is he dangerous?” Derek asks, and he’s serious. “Does he have friends that could--”

“Greenberg? No, not a chance. He gets his weed from his sixteen year old cousin in Santa Barbara.”

Derek rubs a hand over his whole face, shaking his head, and the empty greenhouse fills up with weird tension. Stiles feels like he should apologize. He should definitely apologize.

“Look I…” he steps forward. “Thanks...for saving my ass. I’d like to say that my life isn’t usually this obnoxious, but it actually is."

“You should stay out of the drug drama, alright? Trust me, it’s not how you should be spending freshman year.”

Derek has the distant and lorn look again, casting his eyes down at the empty flower pots and dried mud on the floor of the greenhouse.  Stiles teeters forward, legs like jelly, hoping that Derek will take pity on him and maybe give him a piggyback ride home.

“So your ex-girlfriend…”

“Yeah..she was, like... a beacon of drug drama. You’re lucky that kid is a joke,” he says, gesturing behind him, where Greenberg exited. “You don’t wanna know what a beatdown from a real drug dealer is like.” Shit, he looks sad. His eyebrows fold together, mouth twisted to the side.

“I can ditch the drug drama.”

He doesn’t know why he’s so antsy to please Derek, to make himself seem like less of walking disaster. Stiles has always been a fuck up. He once accidentally kidnapped the captain of his high school lacrosse team in eleventh grade and was given a restraining order that he kept accidentally violating. He’s fucked up a few of his dad’s investigations by meddling with the files and evidence, almost getting his father shitcanned in the process. He tried to build a skate ramp for Scott’s backyard using some wood that he thought was scrap, but turned out to be the neighbor’s new fencing. He doesn’t want to fuck this up. He doesn’t even know what this is.

Derek shakes his head again. He looks like a puppy when he does that.

“I kind of feel like I’m in this parallel universe right now,”  Derek says. “Like I’m back in freshman year, only you’re not Kate, and you sell mediocre weed instead of Oxy, and I’m not young and stupid an railing lines of coke to impress you.”

He looks nervous, saying all that, and Stiles’s can’t think of an appropriate response so he says,

“Hey, my weed is not mediocre.”

“Greenberg’s weed.”

“Whatever.”

And then the entire world implodes, folding into a needle point at the tip of Stiles’s tongue because Derek kisses him, out of the blue, just like that, just like Stiles hasn’t been imagining all this sexual tension. He takes a big step forward, and is about half an inch from his face, where Stiles gets to register the modes size of his pores, the flecks of green and brown in his eyes, the little uneven part of his eyebrow. His mouth melts into his like every other mouth Stiles has kissed, liquid, loose lips, pressed noses, and he’s sure his eyes are still open, wide and surprised, but who cares. This isn’t every other mouth he’s ever kissed, not in the slightest-- this kiss counts.

Then grips Derek’s torso instead of his hip accidentally, which makes Derek snort? And he pulls away, wiggling awkwardly. Um...

“Did I just tickle you?”

Derek presses the heel of his hand into his forehead. He laughs a little.

“I just ruined that with tickling,” Stiles says mostly to himself. His lips are cold.

Derek won’t look at him for a moment, just peers glassy eyed down at the floor. Stiles remembers that Derek is a Shy Guy. Stiles isn’t. He takes his shoulders, looks him straight in the eye because he can't afford to let this get awkwad h, and he says,

“Is this okay?”

Derek looks down at his lips then back up at his eyes and he just pulls him by the back of his head and they’re kissing again, and this time Stiles just tries to hold him close. He has a bulky body, warm, heart pounding through the skin and the fabric. He smells like old spice. He tastes like gatorade and morning breath. It fogs his mind, sands him down until his only purpose is to catch Derek’s mouth at the right time when they move their heads. He could give up smoking if he had this all the time. He wants this all the time. He presses closer and closer and then Derek pulls his face away, stubble scraping Stiles's mouth. He presses his lips to that cheek. 

“We have class,” Derek breathes into his face after a second. When he backs up, he looks a little bewildered.

Stiles legs are practically translucent at this point, from the running, from the adrenaline, from the way that Derek looks nervous, but not scared. Despite this, he walks with him to class.


	3. a kinsey 3.8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I abandoned this story for like 6 months. 
> 
> But it's done. 
> 
> I'm not sorry for my completely unironic love of Ke$ha.

Two days go by and that’s fine. That’s normal. They only have a week until finals, so it’s conceivable that Derek just hasn’t gotten around to checking his phone or responding to texts.

On the third day, Stiles has a 3000 word essay due at midnight, so he camps out at the library, even brings a blanket, texts Erica to bring him coffee periodically while he stakes claim of the comfy chair near the most natural light. He doesn’t have much time to think about why Derek hasn’t texted him or liked any of his facebook statuses even though last week he’d liked every one of them. He just gets his paper done, crying at the computer screen, and emails it to the TA five minutes before midnight, unedited.

And the fourth and fifth days, Stiles considers going to the gym early in the hopes of running into him, but that would be the most obvious set up of all time. He does that stalker-y facebook thing where he checks Derek’s activity over the past week to see if it’s possible that his iphone broke and that’s why he’s been invisible. He liked some girl named Braeden’s post on Tuesday via mobile.

On the sixth day, he tells Scott,

“I think I’m being rejected.”

Scott is taping plastic underwear that he cut out of a garbage bag to his ass because it’s the Anything But Clothes party tonight. Kira said she was going to wear a matching plastic bikini.

“Um...maybe he’s just really, really busy.”

Stiles sighs because no one else obviously has any other way to rationalize it, but it sounds like bullshit, and all he can think about it how confused everything feels, and how he should have opened up the lines of communication instead of just running on assumption. He blurts out,

“ _He_ kissed _me_ , you know?”

Scott nods and tapes the underwear to the inside of his thigh, and he looks really focused on the task, so he’s probably not been listening. Also Stiles has actualized his problem in ten different ways since Saturday, so Scott is just responding automatically like he did for the entire three months of first semester when Stiles thought he was in love with Lydia.

This is different, though. He feels like he might actually be sick if he doesn’t hear from him again. He’ll take anything-- a phone call, a text, an _e-mail_. It’s like he’s in withdrawal. Oh, God he’s really taken that Ke$ha song too far, hasn’t he?

“Have fun peeling that duct tape off your junk tonight, bro.”

Scott patts his junk a bit, shakes his butt to make sure everything is in place. If he gets a boner, he’s screwed.

“It’s cool, I shaved my pubes.”

“We’ve been through this, Scott, you just can’t shave your pubes in the common bathroom. It’s unethical.”

“I did it in the Renner House bathrooms, don’t worry.”

Scott picks up his skateboard and gives him a look mixed with pity and concern. It’s because he is still wearing the same pair of boxers he’s had on for two days and one of Scott’s shirts that is too small. He hasn’t done laundry in two weeks. Their room smells like weed and something that’s definitely rotting in the mini fridge. Stiles only has a bottle of wine left from his booze stash, and now that he’s on Greenberg’s shitlist, he doesn’t know who to convince to buy him more. Last week, Derek probably would have gladly taken him on a liquor store run. He saw a great future filled with the charms of having an older boyfriend. Only Derek is clearly ignoring him and the only notifications  he gets on his phone are from Kim Kardashian Hollywood.

What’s worse is Stiles’ finals are over. There’s a week left of school and he’ll be going back home to pick up his crappy job for the summer. If he doesn’t see Derek again, it will be months until he can. He doesn’t even have him on Skype.

“You sure you don’t want to come to the party? I have an extra garbage bag.”

“I can’t, I’ve got a lot of work to do tonight.”

Getting wine-drunk and going on Omegle doesn’t really constitute as work. It’s just...he can’t go to a party because all he’ll do is check his phone in a corner every five minutes, anyway. And if he gets really hammered, he’ll definitely do something embarrassing like call Derek.  He’s guaranteed to make it all 4000% more awkward with some kind of slurred message. It’s better to just get moderately buzzed and maybe jack off in front of the webcam with a stranger half a world away.

When Scott leaves, Stiles tries to open the booze, only he doesn’t have a corkscrew. He spends, like, half an hour stabbing the cork with a butter knife until he gives up and turns out the lights. No matter how sad and pathetic waking life gets, there’s always sleep.

He’s in that half-awake, half-dead dream space where his brain isn’t really there, but his body is. For a few moments, a distant music confuses him, lulls him, and then it’s all sirens and flashing bright lights because “You’re Love is my Drug” is the song, and he’s up, scrabbling for his phone.

And Derek is calling him.

“Do you want to come over?” is what Derek asks when Stiles says hello.

“Uh, yeah….yeah,” he sits up, scratching at his belly. “I thought you….I mean, I haven’t heard from you in a  couple of days.”

“i know, I…” Derek sounds like he’s biting his tongue. “Just come over. I’ll text you

address.”

The butterflies that start flapping around in Stiles stomach are not butterflies-- they are killer bees. He bounces up from the bed, stubbing his toe on something. He changes into a clean pair of Scott’s boxers because he has no boundaries and he needs to not smell like he’s been stewing in his own misery and filth for the past week. Before he leaves, he shoves two condoms in his wallet.

***

Stiles parks his car outside the apartment complex where Derek lives. It’s a nice place. He’s too frantic, too excited, getting way ahead of himself. He paces back and forth outside the building and sends Derek a text.

**i’m downstairs**

He appears approximately 12 seconds after the text was sent, holding open the door from the inside. Stiles tries to realign his facial expression to something less hopeful. It’s just dawned on him that maybe Derek has invited him over to shut it down. Maybe Derek looks so emotionally constipated right now because he’s about to tell Stiles to get out of his life.

“Hey,” he tries tentatively.

Derek nods at him. Not a good sign.

“How were finals?” Oh, god this is awful. Stiles can’t think of anything to say.

Derek gives him this look that says, _really? Small talk?_ And leads him down the hall to his apartment.

Which is fucking huge compared to Stiles’ shitbox dorm room.

“You could fit my entire dorm section in here,” he says, gaping at the floorspace.

“I just don’t have a lot of furniture. It’s not that big.”

He’s right. There’s only a couch, tv, and end table in the living space. The kitchen is so clean that it’s sparkling. Stiles wonders if Derek is going to show him his bedroom, and if it would be too cheeky and presumptuous to ask to see it.

Derek gets him a bottle of cider and they lean against the marble counter, not talking for a long thirty seconds.

“Is everything okay? With you and me?” Stiles bites back the urge to ask _are we cool?_ like he would if Scott was giving him the cold shoulder. The thing is, he doesn’t want to treat this like it’s just another buddy buddy situation. He’s not about to drop the _no homo_ signals. He wants to be laid out on top of this counter. He wants to hold Derek’s goddamn hand on campus and sit on his lap at the Starbucks in the library, and he wants to kiss him. He keeps staring at his lips.

Derek presses his palm to the counter, boxing Stiles in a little. He moves into his space, head down.

“I’m sorry. Sometimes I get…” he looks up at him. “I get distant.”

“Listen, if you’re not into this,” _into me_ , “I get it, but like...talk to me first so I don’t go crazy thinking I’ve scared you off.”

“You scare me, but you didn’t scare me off.” Derek offers him a half smile. Stiles will take it.

“Is it the age thing? ‘Cause I’m 18. You’re in the clear.”

Derek’s hand moves to rest on Stiles’ lower back, just sitting there, thumb brushing back and forth. He nestles in a little closer.

“It’s not that.”

“It’s cause I’m a guy.” Stiles knows that’s the reason because Derek blushes a little. It’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen. “That freak you out?”

Derek shakes his head.

“It’s just different...for me, I mean.”

“Well...heteroflexibility is a thing, right? And there’s that whole Kinsey scale. How badly do you want to bang dudes? On a scale of one to six? I’m a Kinsey 3.8, apparently.”

“Right now, I kind of just want to bang you.”

Maybe he should be a little more conscientious of Derek’s sexuality crisis, but he can’t help it anymore. Stiles swoops in to really kiss him. It tastes like caution and apple cider. He maybe whimpers a little when Derek’s tongue presses against his own, tentatively, like he’s testing it all out. They shift so that Derek stands between Stiles’ legs and he can slip his hands just under the fabric of his henley. The skin on his lower back is smooth, feels untouched. Stiles moves his mouth regretfully away from Derek’s and kisses down his jawline. The stubble there is sharp and sexy-- Stiles hopes he never shaves it away. Derek’s neck loosens up so that Stiles can kiss it, swirling his tongue around the pulse point. He sucks what is going to be a massive hickey there and Derek’s breath comes out shakily.

Stiles realizes that their hips have been secretly moving against each others. Something about all of this, about Derek’s shyness and eagerness, makes Stiles’ stomach warm, makes him hard and tingling all over. He wants to fuck his brains out. His body is ready.

Bravely, he takes his hands away from Derek’s back and puts them on his hips, holding them in place. He drives his own hips up a little, grinding against him hard enough that Derek hisses into his mouth. He does it again and again and again until Derek tears his mouth away from Stiles and presses his forehead against his, panting. Stiles knows that Derek is hard, he can see it pressing against his too-tight jeans.

“Do you want to…?” he asks Derek, to make sure. Something about the way Derek is kissing and moving makes Stiles feel like he’s the one who has to drive this thing home.

“Yeah.” It sounds like a whispered secret. Stiles detects a bit of trepidation.

“What?” Stiles asks. “What is it?”

“I’ve never been with guy before. I don’t know what…” he swallows thickly. “What to do.”

“Don’t overthink it,” Stiles says, and then he drops to his knees. “I can show you.”

They turn so that Derek is pressed against the counter and Stiles can get at his belt.

“This okay?”

Derek looks down at him, biting his lip, nodding.

He makes quick work of freeing Derek’s cock from his jeans. It’s thick and pretty, glistening with precome already from the dry humping. He’s heavy in his mouth when he takes him. It’s been a while since Stiles has gone down on someone who wasn’t Erica, so he hopes that he can remember how to do this right. No teeth, he reminds himself.

The _noises_ Derek makes, though. When Stiles lets hit the back of his throat, he looks up through watery eyes at Derek’s face. His mouth is open with shock and eyes squeezed shut. He feels Derek’s fingers lace through the hair at the back of his head and he pulls back up, twisting around the head and pushing himself down. He pushes his tongue against the underside and tightens his lips, and Derek whispers, “fuck” as he does it again and again. He uses his hand to work Derek’s length as he focuses on the head, sensitive and leaking on his lips, he tries to make it good, lightly running his tongue around him and then popping it into his mouth with a filthy noise while Derek tries not to writhe or fuck Stiles’ mouth. He can tell he’s holding back.

Stiles would gladly spend the rest of the night down here. The rest of the week, maybe. There’s something really _beautiful_ about it all. It’s some kind of trust thing passing between them. Stiles keeps swallowing him down, just trying to make him feel good.

He doesn’t expect it when Derek comes suddenly, after only a minute. He shudders and gasps at the same time, hands pulling Stiles off his dick as he shoots white. It splashes onto Stiles’ lips and he licks them a little, curious. It just tastes like regular old come, not special and sweet because it came from the dick of his lover, but it’s salty and dirty and makes Stiles want to jack off right here on the floor.

“Sorry,” Derek says under his breath.

Stiles wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smiling.

“You could warn a guy,” he jokes.

While Derek is busy tucking himself back into his jeans, Stiles stands up to face him. He hopes he isn’t freaking out or regretting it already, but then Derek’s head falls onto Stiles’ shoulder when he comes near. They hug for a minute or too and it’s fucking adorable. He quickly adds,

“Next time just tug my hair or something.”

He can feel Derek’s cheesy smile against his neck.

Later, Stiles finally gets to see Derek’s bedroom-- surprise, painted neutral with minimalist furniture. He takes off all his clothes so Derek can learn the little peculiarities of his body, like his moles that go all over. He talks Derek though giving his first handjob ever which turns Stiles on more than it should, makes him come harder than the first time Parrish fingered him in the evidence room.

They have a few more ciders and stay in bed, in their underwear, just talking about random shit with the added bonus of sweet kisses in between laughter. It’s cute as hell and everything Stiles never got when he was fucking deputies and random dudes from Jungle. Stiles even falls asleep as the littled spoon an wakes up with Derek drooling on his shoulder and he doesn’t even mind in the slightest. His life is a romantic comedy and he imagines an entire movie montage with Hall and Oates playing in the background. He can see Derek waking him up and dragging him to class or the gym. He can see them having beer with his dad on Superbowl Sunday with Melissa and Scott making spinach dip in the kitchen, all from this spot on the big king sized bed that Derek said feels better someone else in it.

He prods Derek’s shoulder to wake him, sitting up and looking down at the way he snuggles up to the pillow. He blinks up at Stiles like he forgot he was there, but looks relaxed.

“I have a proposition.”

“At...8 in the morning?” Derek says through a yawn.

“You-- you woke me up at 6 on a _Saturda_ y!”

“Today is Sunday. I sleep in on Sundays.”

“Well, that’s noted, but back to my proposition.”

Derek looks at him with those sassy eyebrows that he really likes.

“How would you like, for the low low price of three payments of $99.99, to have me, Stiles Stilinski, as your first real boyfriend?”

It hangs in the air and Stiles realizes how obnoxious it sounds, but he couldn’t think of another way to say it without sounding like he was in the fourth grade.

“Three payments of $99.99?”

“I’m on sale.”

“I thought you were a drug dealer, not a prostitute,” Derek says, smiling.

“Jack of all trades-- whatever. Are you in?”

Derek reaches up to pull him back down, pretty much answers him by making out despite the obvious morning breath. That’s probably something only boyfriends do.

“I’d like to say that you’re my first boyfriend, but you’re not. I’d also like to say that you’re my first older boyfriend, but alas….”

Derek blows a raspberry on his neck. It’s really romantic.

***

By the time the school year is over and done with, Stiles has $27.00 left from the money he made selling Greenberg’s weed. He uses it to buy Derek flowers and, of course, lube.

 

**Author's Note:**

> twinkwolf is my tumblr


End file.
